


friday never hesitate

by dalmatienne



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Comedy of Errors, Drinking, Getting Together, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Miscommunication, the narrator is reliable but he's a moron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-30 11:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalmatienne/pseuds/dalmatienne
Summary: Tyson remembers plenty of Beer Olympics. The house had been pumping with people and even though Landy and MacK’d been fighting over the aux cord all night, the music had been just right and just loud enough. Tyson, JT, and Kerf’d teamed up as Team North America and kicked ass at three-person beer pong. They’d swept so many teams in the tournament, Tyson doesn’t know how much he’d had to drink, but he does know this: they’d been legen- wait for it -dary.And fine, okay, so Tyson doesn’t really remember much of what happened after they won the beer pong tournament, but that’s not his fault. His alcohol tolerance just hasn’t been the same since last summer when Barzy’d given him mono.*Or, the story of how Tyson Jost almost concusses one best friend, sends another into anaphylactic shock, nearly drives his roommate to drink, and manages to make everything better in one short week.





	friday never hesitate

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Stromesquad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stromesquad/pseuds/Stromesquad) in the [wesmashing](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesmashing) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Frat AU! The boys all live in the frat house together shenanigans ensue. Kisses happen. Preferably a triad but poly vs also welcome
> 
>  
> 
> If you recognize your name in this story, please, for the love of all things holy and good, click away now. This is entirely a work of fiction.
> 
> It's not really an Avs writing challenge unless I've rubbed my gay little hands all over a poly prompt. I wasn't even going to do this but then the Match Game came and punched me in the fucking face. Shout out to Em and Seb for letting me yell about this to them for w e e k s even though I should have been working on something else. All of my love goes to Ellie as always, and my life debt to [Mythisea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythisea) ever increases as she was my lovely, amazing, hardworking beta for this. Thanks all!

**i. monday you can fall apart**

**__** _(and i just want you back by my side - come monday, jimmy buffett)_

Eight-am Econ lectures on the Monday after a weekend rager are always the fuckin’ _worst_. Economic principles are bad enough when Tyson isn’t nursing a two day hangover, but economic principles the Monday after Beer Olympics?

Nah, fam.

Bull markets are whatever and bear markets aren’t the sort of bears Tyson’s interested in, _thanks_.

Tyson’s head makes a dull thunking sound as he drops it to rest on the cool laminate of the table. He’d left the house early that morning to grab his usual hangover-busting green smoothie from the cafe by the lecture hall. The kid behind the counter bumped fists with him and he got a few “Sick party on Saturday, bro!”s from the other half-asleep students in the classroom before he collapsed into his usual seat. Like, Tyson’ll be fine once he finishes the smoothie and maybe mainlines a double espresso after class but until then, he’ll just rest his eyes a bit.

It’s not like JT’s there to keep him awake before the professor gets there.

Like, Tyson _gets_ it. Two-day hangovers are _killer_ , but that’s no reason for JT to not be ready in time for them to leave the house for class. Not when he knows Tyson’s got a very tenuous grasp on his acceptable grade as it is and can’t afford to lose participation points.

Asshole didn’t even answer when Tyson’d banged on his and Kerf’s door this morning.

Actually, Tyson thinks as he turns his head to stare at the streaky white board at the front of the classroom, he hasn’t seen either of them since Saturday night. They didn’t even make an appearance for recovery brunch, which is a fucking _travesty_ since Colin’s whole-grain French toast is legit fire.

Even weirder than missing recovery brunch is that Kerf and JT totally flaked on their usual Sunday night study date. Tyson _needs_ their Sunday night study dates. No one can make flashcards like JT, and Tyson is slowly wheedling all of Kerfy’s cheating tips (“They’re _study hacks_ , Josty, I’m not a _cheater_ ”) out of him. With midterms coming up, Tyson’d been forced to go to Barrie to quiz him on his shitty flashcards, and like, Tyson Senior is a great Big but no one’s calling him a Rhodes Scholar. They’d spent the entire time bitching at each other and trying to one-up on hookup stories and like, objectively, Barrie has more stories, but that’s because he’s _old._ And anyway, Tyson’s stories are better so like. Quality over quantity, bitch.

The point being, they hadn’t gotten much studying done. At least, not for the relevant subjects.

Too much Tyson Time is not good for his grades. Or the general sanity of anyone in the house, which is a shame honestly, because Tysons are great.

As Tyson contemplates the sorry state of his life—no JT or Kerf to pay attention to him, so much for pledge class of ‘18 for life—other students slowly trickle into the room, slamming textbooks and notebooks on the tables and creaking open their laptops. A girl in a leopard print snuggie takes one of the empty seats beside him and Tyson moves his backpack into the other seat. Just in case JT shows up late, or whatever.

Sure enough, just as Professor Meurs goes to close the door and start the class, a familiar figure slinks into the room. JT’s got his toque pulled low over his hair and ears, and he has a thick gray scarf wrapped up tight around his neck. He looks—he looks good, of course he does, with his beard maintained to just the right side of scruffy, and the broad line of shoulders visible even under the ridiculous scarf. JT’s a good looking guy but, like, that’s _basically_ a requirement for joining Kappa. The whole frat is stupidly attractive.

It’s fucking _great_ , but Jesus does it test Tyson’s reserve, especially around car-wash-fundraiser season.

Moving his backpack out of the seat beside him, Tyson waves JT over as Professor Meurs sets up her laptop. Instead of waving back or heading over or doing any number of normal human things, JT...freezes. His eyes go wide and then shifty, scanning the room for any other open seat like he’s on the lookout for the paparazzi. And Tyson loves Comph, he does, but the guy’s not what anyone would call a frat star. There’s no other reason why he could be acting this weird.

It’s not like JT’s avoiding Tyson, or anything.

JT’s finally shamed into taking the seat by Tyson when Professor Meurs clears her throat and raises her eyebrows at him. Tyson watches gleefully as JT’s cheeks color to match his beard and he slumps into the empty chair, shrugging out of his coat but leaving the scarf on.

As soon as Professor Meurs really hits her stride in her lecture—something something economic interdependence something—Tyson leans in to tug at the scarf, giggling as JT bats his hands away.

“What’s this, bro? You fashion now, huh?”

“Stop it, I’m just cold.”

“Cold-hearted, you mean.” That, at least, gets JT to actually look at him. Tyson gets caught for a moment, enjoying the warm feeling of Comph’s eyes on him. “You left me alone and unattended before class. You know I can’t survive like that. I’m like Tinkerbell: I need attention to live.”

At last JT cracks something close to a smile, the corner of his mouth curling up in a smirk that makes Tyson feel like walking into the House at the beginning of a new semester: almost like coming home. He knocks his shoulder against Tyson’s and keeps his voice low when Professor Meurs flicks an annoyed glance their way.

“Did you just quote Glee at me?”

“As if. I _paraphrased_ Glee at you. Rachel Berry needs _applause_ , I just need you to look at me.”

The blush on JT’s cheeks, which had been receding, comes back in full force and Tyson is as delighted as always to get that response out of him. He can be so quiet, his humor so dry, that Tyson _lives_ to get a rise out of him. A few prods and pokes in the right places and he’s like a party popper, exploding from a plain cardboard wrapper into a colorful human being, one who yells and shouts and gets absurdly competitive over pub trivia. Him and Kerf both. Speaking of...

“Where’ve you and Kerf been, man? I haven’t seen either of you since Saturday. You guys stood me up on our date.”

Study date. Whatever.

“Beer Olympics hit us pretty hard, I guess,” JT says and he’s not looking at Tyson anymore, staring at the graphs projected onto the whiteboard with his shoulders hunched up around his ears. Tyson wants to follow up on that, wants to demand what was so bad about Beer Olympics—arguably the best party thrown thus far this year, an obvious competitor with Hashtag Island Time for best party of all time—that made JT and Kerf shut down like that, but when he opens his mouth, Professor Meurs clears her throat again and says,

“Gentlemen, please.”

It can probably wait until after class.

* * *

Tyson doesn’t give JT the chance to slip away from him again, working hard to keep in step with his stupidly long legs—even though they’re _almost_ the same height, what the fuck—as they exit the building. The snow from Saturday has almost melted away, leaving the sidewalks muddy and gross. JT’s got a class a couple of buildings over but Tyson’s free until his afternoon classes, so he tags along on the walk, chatting away at JT.

He’s in the middle of updating JT on his mom and sister since Comph ditched him all of Sunday and therefore missed his mom’s weekly FaceTime call when JT drops his awkward silence act and interrupts Tyson with, “How much do you remember from Beer Olympics?”

Which, rude. Tyson remembers _plenty_ of Beer Olympics. The house had been pumping with people and even though Landy and MacK’d been fighting over the aux cord all night, the music had been just right and just loud enough. Everyone’d split into teams to play beer pong and flipcup, and Matty C.’d even dug out his classic set of drunk jenga blocks to spice things up. Tyson, JT, and Kerf’d teamed up as Team North America and kicked _ass_ at three-person beer pong. They’d swept so many teams in the tournament, Tyson doesn’t know how much he’d had to drink, but he does know this: they’d been legen- wait for it -dary.

And fine, _okay_ , so Tyson doesn’t _really_ remember much of what happened after they won the beer pong tournament, but that’s not his fault. His alcohol tolerance just hasn’t been the same since last summer when Barzy’d given him mono.

Or maybe it’d been Fabbs who’d given it to him?

Whatever. The point is, it’s not Tyson’s fault that he’s a cheap date now.

So he just laughs and knocks his shoulder against JT’s and says, “I know me, you, and Kerf fuckin’ killed it at beer pong. Hashtag dream team, am I right?”

“For sure,” JT mumbles and adds a little urgently, “But what about after beer pong?”

Tyson kicks at a chunk of grey packed snow. “After that, it’s kind of a blur. Why? Did I miss anything epic?”

“No,” JT says really quickly and after a pause continues, “Landy got pissed at Barrie for inviting that Sigma Tau guy to the party.”

“Why, are they hooking up?”

“Landy and Barrie, or the Sigma Tau guy and Barrie?”

“Either? Both?”

JT shrugs and they keep walking.

Tyson steals a look at JT’s face. Chin buried in his thick scarf, his brows are furrowed under his toque and his lips are twisted down. He looks lost in thought, hovering on the edge of disappointment. Tyson can’t imagine what he’d be so torn up about, unless he’s still pining after Landy.

Which, like, _fair_. Who isn’t?

At the turn where Tyson’ll go straight to go back to the house and JT’ll turn left to go to his art history gen ed, Tyson leans in for a bro hug and JT goes stiff. And like, so they don’t hug as much as Barbs and Gravy or like, Barrie and everyone he’s ever met, but Tyson’s _missed_ him and JT usually puts up with it. Maybe he’s got one of those hangovers that makes him all touch averse. That fucking blows.

As they walk away Tyson yells out, “Have you talked to Kerf lately?”

It’s a legit question. They fucking room together.

For some reason, Comph’s cheeks blush and he grumbles out “No!” and power walks away.

Weirdo.

* * *

Tyson spends the rest of the day going to classes and trying to catch up with Kerf. Kerf isn’t answering texts, facebook, whatsapp, or twitter dms, but Tyson hears from Sammy who talked to EJ who texted with Colin who saw Kerf studying for his Am Rev history midterm on the silent floor of the library, so Tyson thinks he’s fine, probably. Homeboy’s got to memorize the thesaurus to make his in-class essays sound especially pretentious, after all. There’s an informal fundraiser meeting at the house that night that, as the youngest brothers, they’re basically required to attend, so he’ll catch up with him and JT later.

It’s...they’re fine. Totally fine.

* * *

Grubi, as the treasurer of Kappa Omega Lambda, _ought_ to lead the fundraising meetings, but usually Barrie and Landy steamroll him, bouncing ideas back and forth off each other and arguing until Barrie inevitably suggests a wrestling match to decide things and either Colin or Soda have to be called in to deescalate the situation.

MacK’s no help, because he usually either joins in or starts MCing the whole thing like it’s a fucking WWE match up.

One time they’d made the mistake of calling in EJ.

After Barrie’d been carted away on a stretcher, waving like he was the Queen of fucking England, a tourniquet on his leg, they’d had to reset their “days without a near-fatal accident” counter back to zero.

Luckily, though, Landy has evening classes on Mondays this semester, so Barrie is able to take over the fundraising meeting without incident. As always, Grubi doesn’t seem to mind, content enough to sit back in his nest of throw pillows on the newer couch and consult their bank accounts and budgets on his laptop.

Tyson’s claimed the other couch, the grey-green worn out one that is probably older than he is. It’s only just big enough to fit him, JT, and Kerfy if they squeeze in, but it’s a comfortable squeeze. He drapes himself across it so no one gets any big ideas. Sammy rolls his eyes at Tyson when he wanders into the living room but he seats himself on the other couch by Grubi without comment.

Barrie traipses in eating an overstuffed sandwich, like he’s fucking Dagwood or some shit. He’s always eating something, or shoving a pen in his mouth, or just talking. Tyson would say something about how he always has to do something with his mouth, but like.

Stones and glass houses and shit.

Barrie takes one look around the living room, taking in Sammy and Grubi curled up on the nice couch and Tyson stretched out on the not nice couch, and immediately begins bitching about lack of turnout loud enough for MacK to show up and tackle him into the decrepit old beanbag chair by the entertainment center.

Tyson snapchats a video of it, sends it to Kerf and JT with the caption _mack’s gonna suplex tbear into the fortnites if u don’t get down here_.

JT sends back _you know that’s not how fortnite works tyson_ but he can hear them stomping down the stairs so Tyson takes it for the W it clearly is.

Except, when they get into the living room they’re both wearing the same get-up of sweatpants and Kappa sweatshirts with thick scarves wrapped around their necks. They look like the frat version of the twins from The Shining.

Tyson sits up, scoots to the middle cushion, and pats the open seats next to him alluringly. They are, after all, the best seats in the house.

After a moment of hesitation, JT and Kerf sit down. They both shove themselves into their respective corners of the couch and don’t touch Tyson at all, which like. That won’t fucking do.

So Tyson leans back against the couch and throws arms around both their shoulders. They tense up, probably that weird touch-averse hangover thing again, so Tyson tries to lighten the mood by plucking at their scarves and saying, “Why didn’t I get the scarf memo?”

He’s looking at Kerf when he says it, so he gets the pleasure of seeing this incredible blush overpower the paleness of Kerfy’s cheeks. It’s like, mesmerizing, to the point where it takes Tyson a second or two to realize Kerf isn’t _saying_ anything, and neither is JT. JT, when Tyson looks over to him, has his eyes closed and is biting his lip. Tyson looks back and forth between the two and then decides to go for the street shout out and looks towards the other brothers for hints.

Only Sammy is paying attention to them; Grubi is typing away at his laptop and MacK is smothering Barrie with the beanbag chair. When Tyson raises an eyebrow at him, Sammy gives him a look that encompasses so many emotions, Tyson can’t even name them all. Incredulous might be one of them. Maybe disappointment.

Tyson moves his arms away from JT and Kerf. He carefully tucks his hands between his knees. “So, uh,” he starts, but Kerf jumps in with, “Can we start the meeting now?”

Beneath the beanbag chair, Barrie flails even harder until MacK is knocked off balance and releases his hold on the fabric. Barrie emerges like a whale breaching, red-faced and gasping for air.

“Okay,” he gasps, “ _okay_. So in order to _be_ the most cash money frat on campus, we need to _make_ the most cash money for our chosen charity this semester, which is—”

“The Tall Clubs International Foundation,” Grubi supplies.

“The Tall Clubs Inter—what?”

“It promotes causes that benefit the special needs of exceptionally tall people,” Grubi reads out. “Erik suggested it. He said it’s a charity near and dear to his heart.”

“Fucking EJ,” Barrie hisses. “Fine. Fine, we’re raising money for the tall freaks of the world. Does anyone have any fundraising ideas?”

Tyson shoots his hand in the air before Barrie has even finished his question. He has been waiting for this moment the entire week.

“I have the best idea _ever_.”

* * *

It is, in retrospect, _not_ the best idea ever.

Arguments could be made that it is, in fact, one of the worst ideas he’s had this semester.

As Tyson looks down at JT, laid out cold on the backyard grass with a golfball-sized bruise on his forehead from a mini-golf trick shot gone wrong, he feels some distinctly regretful feelings.

“Oh my god, you killed Compher!” Barrie hollers from the porch.

“You bastard!” MacK adds, but has the good grace to look at least a little concerned that one of his brothers just got knocked the fuck out by a golf ball.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tyson hisses as he drops to his knees by JT. All Tyson had been trying to do was prove that hosting a mini-golf tourney as a fundraiser would be tight af. He didn’t _mean_ to carve a path of pain and destruction with his sick slap hinge release.

JT groans when Tyson grips his shoulder and shakes him, his pale lashes fluttering, and oh shit. Oh shit, oh god, Tyson has never seen anyone drop to the ground so lifelessly.

Another hand comes up to shake JT’s other shoulder. It’s Kerf, his own dark eyes wide as they dart between Tyson and JT. Snowmelt and mud are soaking into their clothing and Tyson just knocked out his best friend with a golf ball made for toddlers.

“Oh my god,” Kerf says to Tyson. Kerfy’s hand goes up towards the rapidly darkening spot on JT’s forehead and at the last minute changes the flightpath to briefly card his fingers into the downy hair at Comph’s temple.

“He dared me to do it,” Tyson says. He feels hysterical, or like an Eminem song: his palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy. “He _double dog dared_ me to do it. You know I can’t back down from that shit.”

“You’re both morons,” Kerf says in this soft, half-disbelieving voice. If he’s just now realizing this, Tyson has to question how well Kerf really knows them.

There’s a commotion from near the backdoor. Tyson looks up to see Gabe, red-faced from running back to the house after class, squabbling with Barrie, who is red-faced from Gabe’s general presence. Which like, big fucking mood. They’re yelling about big money words like responsibility and leadership, with special appearances from phrases like setting-a-good-example-for-the-younger-brothers- _Tyson_ and nurturing-their-creativity-and-sense-of-adventure- _Gabriel_.

At any other time this would be hilarious. Absolute comedy gold, and Tyson’s just horny enough as a person to think it’s kind of hot, but.

But JT’s still pulling his best Taylor Swift lyric impersonation—lyin’ on the cold hard ground—and Kerf’s still petting at his hair, all delicate and soft like Comph’s in hospice care, and no one’s _doing_ anything.

“Um,” he says, just loud enough to cut through Gabe and Barrie’s bitching, “Should we call a doctor?”

“Sammy went to go find Willie,” Barrie says in one breath and in the next calls Gabe “an absolute dicklamp, you big-headed asshat.”

JT starts to wake up before Colin gets there, groaning and clutching his head, shivering in the grass. Kerf jerks back like he’s been burned when JT’s eyes fly open. He flushes, darts a look up a Tyson, and blushes more. When JT goes to sit up, Tyson braces a hand on his shoulder, fingers tangling in that stupid thick scarf still around Comph’s neck.

“Don’t move. You could make it worse.”

“Oh my god, you didn’t concuss me. Your swing isn’t that hard.”

“Excuse you, it’s so hard. Super hard. You _wish_ yours was as hard as mine.”

Next to him Kerf makes a squeaking sort of noise and JT’s eyes don’t cross but it’s a close thing. And okay, maybe that came out a little horny, but it gets his point across.

Suddenly Colin’s there, all fluffy blond hair and thick-rimmed glasses, gently pushing Tyson back as he leans in over JT.

“That’s a nasty fucking goose egg you’ve got there, Comph.”

Tyson stands up. Colin’s got this handled: he actually paid attention during the mandatory first aid class at their last Greek retreat. His hands are steady as he prods at JT, leaning in to check the dilation of Comph’s pupils and murmuring some sort of zen Big-Little pep talk. Back by the patio, Barrie and Gabe have moved their argument indoors, MacK following to ref the inevitable throw-down.

In the late winter darkness, JT looks washed out against the muddy grass, his eyes so dark and slightly unfocused. Kerf, still kneeling by JT’s shoulder, bites his lip and looks off to the corner of the backyard, carefully avoiding looking at any of the three human people right by him. Tyson hums, squints up at the cloudy dark sky, and tries very hard not to think about the consequences of his actions.

Finally Colin climbs to his feet and hauls JT up with him.

“Well, the good news is that I’m pretty sure you’re not concussed,” he says, brushing off the grass and mud from JT’s back. “The bad is news is that I’m not a doctor so I’m eighty-five percent talking out of my ass right now.”

Tyson giggles, high and loud in the painfully quiet night. JT flinches and Kerf takes half a step closer to him. With a brief glance between the three of them, Colin huffs out a sigh and nudges JT towards the house, making noise about Comph getting some advil and going to bed. Kerf trails after them, mumbling about statistics problem sets and suddenly Tyson’s all alone in the backyard.

And like, this is new. Tyson doesn’t _do_ alone. He wouldn’t have joined a frat, moved into a frat house, if he was down with being alone with his thoughts all the time. But when he goes upstairs, Kerf and JT’s door is closed and there’s no light shining out of the gap beneath the door.

Resigned, Tyson wanders back to his and Sammy’s room to bang out a discussion post.

He finishes with a whole five minutes to spare before the midnight deadline, but it doesn’t feel like the victory it usually would without JT there to flick erasers at him or Kerfy there to roll his eyes at him like he hadn’t just done the exact same thing.

 

**ii. tuesday,**

**__** _(you, with your heart beating and your eyes shining - tuesday morning, the pogues)_

Tuesday morning, Tyson wakes up at 9:30 and just _knows_ that it’s gonna be a great day to go quadding. Siri confirms it, telling him that it’s going to be sunny all day with a high in the upper fifties and low in the low forties.

Still not warm enough to break out his salmon shorts and “sky's out thighs out” tank but like. Their time will come.

Plus he doesn’t have classes until later in the afternoon. Fucking _choice_.

So Tyson throws on some trackies and a long sleeved Kappa shirt, grabs his lacrosse shit and makes his way down to the living room.

Rants is camped out on the new couch. He’s eating fistfuls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch straight out of the box and yelling into his headset, mashing buttons on the controller with sticky fingers. Tyson doesn’t even have to look at the tv screen to know what he’s playing.

“Come quadding with me,” Tyson demands. He stands directly in front of the screen. He’s not subtle.

Rants makes a sound, half frustration half sad puppy, and angles his body to try to see around Tyson. “Josty,” he whines, “the match just started!”

“I’m saving you from yourself. Get your shoes on and come toss around the ball.”

“Five more minutes.”

Tyson drops his stick and pushes up his sleeves to the elbows.

If he can’t save his frat from the Fortnite, then no one can.

Rants has the height and weight advantage, but Tyson is persistent (“Weaselly af,” Rants pants after Tyson’s shoved an uncovered couch-sock into his face). Eventually Rants agrees to go quadding, but only on the condition that he can bring Gabe.

Gabe of course brings Barrie, who brings MacK, and suddenly a little game of catch on the quad turns into an almost official Kappa Omega event. They even have a group of spectators bunched up by the walkway, just out of reach of any wayward lacrosse balls. Even JT comes along, though EJ and Gabe take turns nagging him to wear sunglasses and a hat. And like, Tyson _knows_ how JT usually feels about having Gabe’s hands all over him, but mother hen Gabe can be. A lot.

“It’s concussion protocol,” Gabe says during a break in the game. He tweaks JT’s hat lower over the bruise on his forehead. 

Tyson, who’d been like, _lurking_ nearby, makes a wounded noise. JT looks over at him before looking away lightning quick, grumbling, “It’s not a concussion, come on guys.”

His pullover is zipped all the way up to his chin.

Gabe fusses a little more and then the universe takes pity on Tyson just long enough for Rants to throw himself bodily at Gabe and drag him closer to where the ball is being thrown around. Tyson sidles up to JT and elbows him.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey.”

He keeps elbowing JT until he shoves back at Tyson, not hard enough to actually move him away. “What?” JT grouses. He sounds grumpy but there’s a smile pulling at his mouth, and _there’s_ the JT Tyson’s been missing.

“Hi,” Tyson says.

JT rolls his eyes. “Hi.”

“Sorry for giving you a concussion.”

“You didn’t give me a concussion.”

“Well sorry for nailing you.” And like, Tyson _means_ “sorry for nailing you with my sick golf swing” but JT goes wide-eyed and chokes on nothing when Tyson leaves the sentence hanging and that’s kind of hilarious. “Come on, dude,” he says, shoving at JT again. JT jabs at Tyson with his stick and then calls for MacK to pass it to him.

They keep up the loose game of lacrosse long enough that Barrie and Gabe have to leave for their practicums and Kerf and Sammy get out of their bio lab. Tyson sees them exit the science building across the quad—not that he was looking for them, or anything—and waves them down. Sammy sees him and starts pulling Kerf over as well, dodging knots of students and a few tables for some other campus organizations. As soon as they get closer, Tyson has to groan because, like. Kerf’s still wearing a scarf.

It’s not even that fucking cold out. What a baby.

Sammy and Kerf dump their backpacks in the pile of other Kappa’s shit and take up Barrie and Gabe’s abandoned sticks. Tyson jogs over to Kerf and body checks him, but like, gently. Kerf puffs up just like Tyson knew he would and throws a check right back. Tyson can’t help but laugh and launch himself at Kerf. It takes five minutes and Big Z acting as a physical barrier to force them apart and back into some semblance of a line for a scrimmage.

The sun overhead is stunningly hot and Tyson is sweating under his shirt from running back and forth across the quad. Sammy clears the ball from their defensive zone—a memorial plaque for the same dude who got the gym and computer tech lab named after him—and passes it to JT. JT does this sick deke around EJ and dishes the egg to Kerf. Kerf cradles the ball, makes eye contact with Tyson, and somehow manages to pull off this nasty worm burner of a shot that goes so nicely into Tyson’s pocket he’s gonna cry.

So Tyson has the ball, and Grubi’s standing unprotected in front of the garbage can they’re using as a net, and he’s about shoot it top ched—Tyson’s talking some seriously premium gouda here—when this cheer goes up behind him. Tyson hasn’t even scored yet, so he slows to a stop and turns to look back.

The remaining brothers are crowded around Kerf, his scarf on the ground a few feet back, and Tyson can’t see Kerf’s face but he can see EJ’s. It’s lit up like it’s fucking Christmas or some shit and like, Tyson can’t just stand by while Kerf’s about to be roasted to within an inch of his life.

He wants fucking front row seats to this.

When he jogs over, Kerf is batting EJ’s hands away from his neck.

“Stop it, man.”

“Aw, looks like little Alexander’s day wasn’t so terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, after all,” EJ croons, poking at Kerf’s neck and like.

Holy shit, those are a _lot_ of hickeys on Kerf’s neck. Like, Jesus christ dude.

“Did you hook up with a vacuum cleaner?” Tyson asks, grinning. Kerf whirls around to look at him and somehow looks...betrayed? His dark eyes go all wide and hurt and cheeks brighten up in a blush.

“ _No_ ,” he hisses. His eyes dart over to the edge of the crowd, to where JT is standing. JT is fidgeting with the zip of his pullover but when he notices Kerf and Tyson’s eyes on him, he drops his hand like it’s been burned. Something niggles at the back of Tyson’s brain, like the thought version of a sneeze that just won’t come, but he pushes it away.

Unfortunately for JT, EJ is like a dog with a bone, or like a shark that can smell blood in the water. His blue eyes narrow in on JT and his pullover and in three quick steps he’s right there, reaching his long arm over to tug down the collar of Comph’s pullover, and— 

Well that explains the whole scarf get up yesterday.

“Oh ho!” EJ cackles triumphantly, like some sort of cartoon villain. “Oh ho ho, look what we have here!”

And Tyson can’t help but stare because like, Kerf has a lot of hickeys but JT somehow has more? Their necks are purple and blue, no longer the painful reds of brand new hickeys. Even so, they can’t be more than two days old, so Tyson feels pretty confident in guessing that JT and Kerf got them Saturday night.

Tyson isn’t saying he’s an _expert_ at hickeys, but he’s not _not_ saying that either.

“Did you hook-up with the _same_ vacuum cleaner?” he demands.

“You two,” EJ says, wicked toothless smile fully in place, “have got some explaining to do.”

“EJ—”

“I’m very happy for you,” Z says, painfully sincere. He looks first at JT and then down at Kerf. “Girls you find must be very special. Or boys. Or...people,” he trails off, a little confused, but at least his heart is in the right place.

Kerf and JT go bright red, JT pulling his collar back up to hide the bruising and Kerf ducking down to gather up his scarf. Tyson is normally all about chirping and roasting his brothers over their hookups, especially if the hookups in question leave big fucking hickeys, but JT and Kerf both look so excruciatingly uncomfortable. Something twists in Tyson’s gut, some weird sad-angry-protective-guilty emotion, but before he can say anything, Sammy calls out,

“I’ve got thirty minutes before my next class. Can we _please_ get back to the game?”

“Hell yeah,” Tyson says, shouldering to the center of the crowd. He’s more than happy to be the center of attention. “You all _rudely_ interrupted me before I was able to rip this nut.”

This, of course, is met with a chorus of groans, but it serves its purpose: the pressure is off JT, Kerf, and their scandalous hickeys, and they all get back to their scrimmage.

Tyson is a _great_ best friend.

* * *

After the scrimmage breaks up, Tyson wheedles JT and Kerf into hitting up the on-campus burger and pizza joint with him because nothing goes better with a morning of quadding than some low-quality ‘za.

The three of them are stiff around each other and Tyson doesn’t know why. Is it because he almost concussed JT? Is Kerf afraid he’ll be collateral damage? He doesn’t need to worry about that.

Tyson will be super careful.

* * *

Later that night, as Tyson is bullshitting his way through a set of reading responses for his lit class in his and Sammy’s bedroom, he realizes he’s been going about this whole thing the wrong way. JT and Kerf have been awkward around him since the party, so _clearly_ something happened at the party. He’s too drunk to remember, and he doesn’t trust any of the other brothers to remember correctly either. They all got too drunk, except for—

“Hey Sammy,” Tyson says, rolling over in his bed and on top of his reading assignment to face Sammy’s desk. “You were the sober sister Saturday night, right?”

Sammy looks at him like, _duh_. And also like, _bitch_.

“Do you know of anything that happened between me and JT and Kerf that would make them avoid me? They’ve been mad weird for the past two days, even before the whole golf ball thing.”

Sammy’s face does this really complicated thing and he actually puts down his textbook to stare at Tyson for a full minute. The weighted silence gets to Tyson and he raises one eyebrow at him like, _well_?

At last Sammy shakes his head, turns back to his book, and says...something in French.

“What?”

Sammy repeats himself, or maybe says something else entirely? Tyson didn’t take French in high school. He took Spanish, and he wasn’t too hot at that, either.

“Are you pretending you don’t speak English again?” At Sammy’s telling silence, Tyson huffs and rolls back over to uncover his reading. “All right, then. Keep your secrets.”

He’ll figure something out tomorrow.

 

**iii. wednesday, break my heart**

**__** _(you and i got options babe - wednesday night interlude, drake)_

Rushing a frat has taught Tyson many things, but having Tyson Barrie as his Big has helped him accept that some problems are better solved over food. Even if the problem isn’t solved, at least he isn’t hungry anymore.

So after his Wednesday morning block class, Tyson heads on over to the dining hall to ponder over why his best friends are being so weird around him.

And maybe think about where those hickeys came from.

Like, Tyson is _all_ about having fun and getting some but why wouldn’t they tell him if they picked up at the party on Saturday? Tyson tells _them_ whenever he picks up, or whenever he makes out with someone at a party, or whenever any of the student athletes or TAs or baristas flirt with him, or…

Point being, turnabout’s fair play, even if JT and Kerf always seem kind of cranky whenever he shares his stories.

It is with these thoughts on his mind that Tyson swipes into the cafeteria. It’s Classics Day at the dining hall, some sort of weird College of Arts and Sciences propaganda. Tyson makes note of this so he can chirp Kerf for it later. He grabs a turkey pesto sandwich, heavy on the pesto, and sits down to think about his problems. 

JT and Kerf have been weird since the party. Maybe they aren’t being weird with each other, but they’re definitely being weird with him. Since meeting at the first Kappa open rush info session, the three of them have been inseparable. Even when Tyson’d been on that month-long academic probation when his raging asshole of an accounting professor had ratted him out to the Greek Council last semester for bombing his midterm, JT and Kerf had skipped almost every party to stay in with Tyson and help him study.

Especially when helping him study turned into getting super fucking faded and braiding each other’s hair at least twice.

They’re like, ride or die material. Squad fucking goals.

So, like, excuse the fuck out of Tyson for not understanding the sudden awkward cold shoulder from both of them.

Tyson jabs his pita chip into the chunky dining hall hummus and eats it in one bite, licks the hummus from his fingers while he thinks about that awkwardness. It had simmered back down to just obnoxious uncomfortableness until it had flared up again when Tyson made fun of them for the hickeys. Which, like, Tyson can tone that down in the future.

He _can_ , but there’s also an argument to be made that they should just buck the fuck up and take the chirps. It’s not like either of them hooked up with someone they don’t want Tyson to know about. Unless...

Unless—

Tyson gasps aloud, choking on his pita chips.

 _Unless_ JT and Kerf hooked up with _each other_ at the party on Saturday!

God, it all makes sense. The hickeys, the shame. The way JT turns red enough to match his hair when Tyson catches him staring at Kerf for too long, how big and blown Kerf’s eyes go when JT isn’t looking. The way neither of them can meet Tyson’s eyes and how they go all shifty when the topic of Saturday night comes up.

Fuck, Tyson is a motherfucking wizard. A goddamn genius.

“That explains everything!” he whispers fervently to himself. The girls next to him glance over but don’t seem too worried. Weirder stuff has happened in the dining hall, and Tyson isn’t even counting all the times with Nu Sigma and their catfish rituals.

Or the Furry Incident, which he’d promised Barrie and MacK he’d never talk about, ever.

Tyson finishes off the last half of his sandwich in three bites, the pesto smearing across his lips and onto his cheek. He wipes most of it off with the back of his hand and licks it back up. Then he pulls out his phone.

**To: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_are u at the house_

It only takes a few seconds for the reply to come.

**From: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_just left for class, why? you missing me, junior?_

**To: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_no, fuck off. ur useless to me._

**From: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_bitch!!! i raised you!!!_

**To: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_you were nothing before i came on ur show_

**From: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_i’m disowning you. have fun without a family, little orphan josty._

**To: Barrie Barrie Quite Contrary**

_wait!!!!_

_before u block me_

_is Kerf home_?

* * *

He’s walking back through campus, head held high and arms pumping because _hell yeah,_ he solved JT and Kerf’s hickey puzzle.

Kerf and JT hooked up on Saturday and now they’re embarrassed! Heck yeah, happens to the best of us, Tyson thinks, except.

Well.

Tyson’s had a few drunken misadventures in his day and he’s told JT and Kerf even his most awkward and embarrassing hookup stories, including the Other Furry Incident, which Barrie and MacK can one thousand per cent never know about.

Tyson can’t even go to Dogs on the Quad anymore, he’s too traumatized.

So why wouldn’t Kerf and JT tell him about their hook up?

Tyson actually stops on the sidewalk in front of the School of International Studies building, causing a freshman to run into him. As they walk away huffing, he stares at his feet in thought. His sneakers are a little scuffed on the sides. They could use some love.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “maybe the problem is me.”

He has to take a seat on the building steps because like, he can tell he’s in for a big realization and he doesn’t want to lose his balance or anything.

What if—and Tyson has to take a breath here—JT and Kerf aren’t ashamed of the hook up. Maybe they’re ashamed because people _know_ about the hook up. Maybe they’re ashamed because _Tyson_ knows about the hook up. Maybe they’re ashamed because it wasn’t just a hook up at all, maybe they’re deeply in love with each other and in a secret relationship, but they haven’t told anyone because they’re afraid of how people—of how Tyson—would react to two frat brothers dating!

“And they’re roommates,” Tyson breathes.

“Oh my god, they were roommates,” some kid says just behind him and Tyson has to turn around and give her a fistbump because like. Nice.

So Tyson hauls himself to his feet and starts to walk back to the house. He _needs_ to let Kerf and JT knows that he supports them and their super secret relationship, damnit!

* * *

When he gets to the house, he finds EJ sprawled across the new couch. He’s not playing Fortnite, thank god, but he is watching Bojack Horseman, which is so on brand, it isn’t even funny. He points Tyson back towards the kitchen before he can even ask so like. Maybe the awkwardness between the three of them is starting to affect the rest of the house.

In the kitchen, Kerf is making his curried cauliflower and like, it’s good, but Tyson genuinely thinks that’s the only thing he can make. Curried cauliflower and _maybe_ hummus, but that’s only because Colin walked all three of them through the steps so many times, they don’t want to disappoint him.

Tyson hops up on the counter and kicks his heels against the cupboards. Kerf glances sidelong at him but doesn’t say anything so Tyson takes his time and just. Looks.

He can definitely see what JT must see, what with him dating Kerf and all. Like Tyson’s mentioned earlier, all the Kappa brothers are stupidly attractive, and Kerf is definitely not an exception to that rule. With his strong nose, thick dark hair, that body that just doesn’t stop. And his fucking dreamy-ass dimples, jesus. The kid’s a knockout, same as JT, and oh man. Tyson gets a little stuck on the idea of JT and Kerf together. Like, _together_ together.

As Tyson stares, a delicate blush creeps up Kerf’s stubbornly pale cheeks and down his neck. It turns the fading hickeys darker and something restless tugs at Tyson’s chest and fingers.

He kicks the cupboards harder.

“Oh my god,” Kerf says at last. “What do you want?”

Tyson opens his mouth expectantly and Kerf gives him an incredulous look.

“Are you asking me to feed you? Isn’t that, like, you and JT’s thing?”

“It can be your thing, too,” Tyson says magnanimously. “Yours and JT’s. You can share.” Sharing hobbies was a thing couples did, right? Feeding Tyson definitely counts as a hobby.

Tyson is being incredibly supportive of his two best friends’ secret relationship. He deserves some sort of award. Or reward.

Kerf’s blush darkens but he dutifully uses his wooden spoon to scoop up a bite of the cauliflower from the skillet. He tries to hand the handle over but Tyson just shakes his head and drops his mouth open in invitation again.

“Oh my god,” Kerf says again, breathless like he’s holding in his laughter. He nudges at Tyson until Tyson spreads his legs wide enough for Kerf to step between them. Tyson’s still got his mouth open and he looks down at Kerf, at the way his eyes are crinkled up in amusement even now, when he’s pretending that Tyson’s _not_ a light in the darkness that is his life.

Kerf smiles up at Tyson, the right corner of his mouth ticking up higher than the other, and lifts up the spoon of curry cauliflower, and—

And some sort of _goblin_ just hijacks Tyson’s brain and instead he leans in, dodging the spoon, and kisses Kerf.

Kissing Kerf, in the brief moment Tyson is able to enjoy it, feels familiar somehow. Kerf makes this surprised sound, soft and muffled, and kisses back for like seven seconds. It’s warm and almost feels like one puzzle piece slotting perfectly into another, the press of their lips silky smooth. Tyson licks into his mouth, and Kerf _lets_ him, oh my god, but then Kerf pulls back.

Tyson blinks his eyes open—when had he closed them?—and takes in the sight of Kerf staring up at him, wide-eyed, as he touches lips. A dull ringing fills Tyson’s ears as he realizes that perhaps _kissing_ your best friend is not the way to tell him that you support his super secret relationship with your _other_ best friend. He opens his mouth to maybe apologize, maybe tell Kerf about the brain goblin that briefly possessed him, but Kerf frowns thoughtfully and asks, “What did you have for lunch?”

“Oh. Turkey pesto sandwich. Why?”

* * *

EJ goes with Kerfy in the ambulance to the hospital. He almost gets in a fistfight with Landy over that particular honor, only winning because he plays the pledge master card.

The guy may be a bit hard to read sometimes, but he takes his role seriously, sticking up for the younger brothers and pledges long after they’ve been initiated into Kappa.

So it’s, like, super that Kappa leadership is on top of things, but that doesn’t exactly help Tyson at the moment since _apparently_ the pesto had been chock full of cashews which Kerf was _apparently_ severely allergic to, and,

“Oh my god, I gave Kerf the kiss of death.”

“You know how in Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, the prince kisses the princess out of a death-like sleep? You’re kind of the opposite of that.”

Tyson jumps when an arm is slung around his shoulders and he’s tugged into an embrace. He looks up from where he’s been watching the ambulance and its flashing blue and dull red lights disappear down the street. Barrie’s joined him on the porch, bundled up against the chill in a Kappa sweatshirt that’s way too big for him. His curls are a mess and, when he turns to look back at Tyson, he’s got an odd mix of pity and amusement on his face.

Tyson laughs, a little wet and a lot disbelieving, because how _else_ is he supposed to respond to that? “Why are you being mean to me? You’re my Big.”

“I’m being mean to you _because_ I’m your Big. Come on, I stole Landy’s keys when he was looking for an epipen. We’re taking the fratmobile to Dairy Queen and you can tell me all your sad boy woes over some ice cream. We can start with concussing JT and move up to sending Kerfy into anaphylactic shock with your lips.”

“He didn’t go into full anaphylaxis. Just a bit wheezy and red.” At Barrie’s look, the one that clearly reads, _Sure, Jan_ , Tyson grumbles, “I hate you.”

* * *

When they get back to the house, the door to JT and Kerf’s room is firmly closed and someone has set the “days without a near-fatal accident” counter in the kitchen back to zero.

Tyson goes to bed feeling worse than he did when he woke up.

 

**iv. oh, thursday doesn’t even start**

**__** _(the treasure lies before us - sweet thursday, matt costa)_

Tyson wakes up Thursday morning to a barrage of text messages on his phone and groans loud enough for Sammy to lob a pillow at him from across the room. Tyson throws it back and retreats back under the covers to scroll through all the messages. Then he flings the covers back off and struggles into pants and a shirt because _fuck_ eight am Econ lectures and _fuck_ attendance-based participation grades.

JT isn’t waiting for him to walk over to the lecture hall and he doesn’t make it to the classroom before Professor Meurs closes the door and begins her lecture.

The seat next to Tyson is very empty.

He starts his backread of the groupchats while Professor Meurs is talking about opportunity costs and trade offs. To his relief, most of the text messages are just the boys checking to make sure Kerf is okay and then razzing on EJ and Gabe for overreacting when Kerf texted back to say he had it under control.

No one seems to know why Kerf had an allergic reaction and Tyson is just embarrassed enough to be glad for it.

The groupchat between Kerf, JT, and him is tragically silent. The last real exchange in the thread was from Saturday afternoon, JT and Tyson sending memes back and forth while Kerf pretended to be above it all even though Tyson could _hear_ him laughing from the next room over.

With a glance up at where Professor Meurs is pointing at a graph on the projected screen, Tyson opens up his message thread with just JT. He sends him a gif of Tinkerbell looking pissy and like, eight different sad and dying emojis followed by a simple _missing u in econ_. JT doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at the message even though messenger says he’s currently online, and Tyson lowkey wants to like, crawl into a tree hollow and die.

Five minutes later, when JT _still_ hasn’t responded, Tyson tabs over to his thread with Kerf. He slowly types out, _u okay? i’m sorry._ and presses send. He is very careful to not mention what he is sorry about.

The three grey dots pop up almost immediately, followed by Kerf’s response.

_It’s okay. Don’t worry about it._

Tyson worries about it.

* * *

Econ is whatever and Tyson doesn’t even have JT or Kerf to bother since they’re recovering from the life-threatening danger that is, apparently, Tyson’s general presence, so Tyson goes back to his and Sammy’s room, where he promptly tries to smother himself in his blankets.

“Can you not do that in here?” Sammy bitches from his desk chair. “I’m trying to do homework.”

Tyson looks up. Sammy is very clearly playing solitaire on his laptop. When Tyson points that out, Sammy just shrugs and says, “It’s part of the writing process. English is difficult.”

“Oh, so _now_ you can speak English.”

A highlighter hits Tyson in the side of the head and really, what else _can_ Tyson do but retaliate?

The mutual bombardment of pens, highlighters, binder clips, and anything else they can get their hands on only ends when Sammy has to pack his shit up and go to class. Asshole doesn’t close the door behind him so Tyson can’t even wallow in peace.

Sure enough, mere minutes after Sammy leaves, EJ pokes his head in through the open door, eyes lit up with an unholy glee Tyson has learned to both fear and eagerly anticipate.

“Ah, just who I was looking for,” he says, then, “Did a Staples go into labor in here? Are all of these pens the afterbirth of an office supply store delivery?” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head in disappointment. “How do you live like this?”

And like, fuck. There goes his afternoon of angsting about his best friends.

He’d had the best of Bieber queued up and everything.

Tyson brushes half a set of gel pens off his comforter. They bounce off the floor and roll under Sammy’s desk. He hopes they don’t trip on them, but that’s basically a problem for Later Tyson and Sammy. “It doesn’t always look like this. It’s part of Sammy’s writing process.”

“First of all, I refuse to believe my precious angel son could ever do anything like this. Second of all, get your pathetic ass out of bed. We need a lookout and I know you don’t have any classes for the rest of the day.”

“Stop referring to Sammy as your son, that’s creepy.”

“Sure thing, _Tyson Junior_. Now up and at ‘em, scamp. We’ve got things to do and people to not see. I’m not above fining you for obstruction of justice.”

“Obstruction of justice?” Tyson repeats skeptically, but. Well, it’s not like he has plans other than lying around being sad, and he can’t really afford to pay any more of EJ’s ridiculous fines, so. So he gets off his ass and shrugs into the first Kappa sweatshirt he can find and follows EJ down the stairs.

* * *

Most of the rivalries in campus Greek life are bullshit, but goddamn if Tyson doesn’t live for the drama. Like, Beta Upsilon swore a blood feud on Kappa Alpha Rho over a Greek Wars incident a little over a fucking decade ago and the real kicker is that KAΡ literally doesn’t even acknowledge it. Tyson has _seen_ Beta boys hide like, fucking hex bags outside the Kappa Alpha house.

_Hex bags._

All of this is to say that Tyson doesn’t even fucking know where the rivalry between Kappa Omega and Delta Epsilon Tau comes from. It predates any of the current brothers or the alumni that drop by to revisit their glory days or some shit. From what Tyson gathers, you need a PhD in frat history to understand what exactly went down, but whatever it was, it was bad enough to leave a lasting impression.

But again: Tyson _lives_ for the drama.

* * *

EJ stations him at the bottom of the Delta Ep driveway while he and Z sneak up to the house to absolutely _cover_ the siding, door, and windows with stacks of copied paper. Tyson’d tried to get a good look at the drawings on the paper and had only seen the vaguest hint of inked tentacles before Z had snatched it away with a breezy, “For adult eyes only, Josty.”

Tyson is supposed to keep a lookout for when the Delta Eps return from their monthly chapter meeting in their reserved room at the student union building while EJ and Z do their dirty work but like, looking at a sidewalk and the road and some tragic looking hedges is fucking boring.

So Tyson decides, fuck it, he’s gonna multitask. Angst about Kerf and JT _and_ stay on the lookout for rival frat boys. He’s a fucking baller, he can do both.

It’s going great—look left, think about how JT and Kerf don’t trust him enough to tell him they’re dating, look right, bemoan the fact that he almost killed both of them separately in the past three days—when out of nowhere, Tyson’s brain goblin flares up and suggests, _This wouldn’t be a problem if all three of them were a Thing_.

And like, holy shit. Holy shit, Tyson has to pull the emergency brake on that train of thought and sit down on the curb so he can take a breather. Bits of gravel bite into the palms of his hand and the concrete is cold on his ass even through his jeans and Tyson might be into both of his best friends.

His best friends who _clearly_ hooked up at the party last weekend, and who are _obviously_ secretly dating. And _apparently_ , Tyson wants all up in that whole situation.

The brain goblin turns on this torrent of images and suddenly all Tyson can do is imagine what it would be like to have JT’s biceps under his fingers, Kerf’s warm thighs against his mouth. Sucking hickeys into both of their necks and kissing them into oblivion. Some of the images feel so _real_ , it’s like a memory he’s reliving. Worst of all are the scenarios that aren’t even sexy, the ones he can’t blame on his admittedly over-eager dick.

The three of them curled up on their couch in the living room, sharing popcorn and pepperoni pizza and cheek kisses and. Fucking _holding hands_. Like, he’s having legit, deep, romantic feelings, not just lusting over hot dudes who happen to be his bros.

It’s a lot to consider.

As Tyson considers this, in depth—like, not to be horny on main or anything, but hot _damn_ , to be the cream in _that_ oreo—he happens to look back down the sidewalk and _fuck_.

Dylan Larkin and Zach Werenski are walking down the sidewalk two or three houses down, bumping hands and shoulders and elbows, looking for all the world like the high school sweethearts JT has told him they are. Tyson knows them vaguely from the business school networking events JT’s dragged him and Kerf to, and they’re like, _fine_ , maybe a little too buddy-buddy with JT. Tyson has nothing against them.

Nothing against them except that Larkin is a Delta and Werenski is a Kappa Beta who will absolutely back his bro the fuck up, and Tyson is sitting in front of the Delta Ep house while his brothers defile it.

Somehow they haven’t spotted him yet, too busy leaning into each other and whispering sweet nothings or like, baseball stats. Something bland like that. Josty jumps to his feet, dusts the gravel from his ass, straightens his sweatshirt, and says just loud enough for Z and EJ to hear and take the fucking hint, “Hey Larkin, Werenski! ‘Sup ‘sup ‘sup ‘sup?”

Their heads pop up to look at him; Larkin looks genuinely surprised but Werenski looks like he’s thinking about sucking on a lemon.

Or maybe that’s just his face?

“Hey, uhh,” Larkin starts, trailing off like he’s forgotten Tyson’s name, which. Excuse the fuck out of them. He’s unforgettable.

“Tyson,” he supplies, sidestepping to block them from walking any further down the sidewalk. “Or Josty, whichever. JT introduced us a couple of semesters ago.”

Larkin’s face clears like the sun shining through some particularly dense clouds; Werenski looks like he’s switched to thinking about sucking on a slightly less sour lemon. Perhaps a lime.

So maybe it really is just his face.

“Comph!” Larkin says delightedly as he comes to a stop right in front of Josty. “How is he? We don’t have any classes together this semester and I miss my business bro.”

“He’s good,” Tyson maybe lies. “Totally normal, nothing out of the ordinary with good ol’ Jimothy Timothy,” Tyson definitely lies.

“That’s great!” God, Larkin is still smiling.

Tyson lets the silence go a little too long. They shuffle around on the concrete like fucking Sims before Larkin goes for a bro-fist and says, “Well it sure was nice seeing you again, Josty, tell JT I’ll text him!”

“Yeah, uh,” Tyson stutters. He steps right back in front of Larkin, but he forgets to block Werenski who dodges around him like he some superstar running back and, _fuck_ — 

“Hey, what the fuck happened to your house?!”

“Huh?” Larkin asks, all wide-eyed naivete, and Tyson turns around just in time to see EJ and Z hop the fence to the house next door. His eyes shift over to the papers coating the front of the house, the ink dark and bold enough to see from the bottom of the driveway, and— 

Oh god. Oh fuck, those are a lot of tentacles going places were tentacles should not go. Oh jeez, that’s vile, where did EJ and Z even find that shit?

“Oh no,” Tyson says, eyes darting back to look at Larkin and Werenski. God, the look of confusion transforming to disgust and horror on Larkin’s face is fucking delicious. Werenski looks like he’s switched to thinking about a grapefruit that, like, slept with his mom or something. “That’s a fucking trajesty.”

Werenski looks back to him with these cold, dead eyes, and says in this cold, dead voice, like this is some sort of Sharks and Jets showdown, “You’re dead meat, Jost.”

Tyson turns on his heel and fucking sprints back to the Kappa house, laughing the whole way.

* * *

The adrenaline can distract him from his goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation for only so long.

Tyson’s back to lying face down on his bed, trying to either reconcile his feelings or die a fleecy, cottony death via blanket asphyxiation when Sammy slips back into the room after his class. Tyson can hear him shuffling around and pulling his laptop out of his bag. He turns his music down and flips over, ready to bear his heart and soul to Sammy, but he’s met with a look of supreme disinterest.

“Have you even moved since I went to class?” Sammy heaves himself into his own bed and shuffles back into his pillows, uncaring of the severe blow he’s dealt to Tyson’s ego.

“What? _Yes_ I’ve moved. EJ took me on a pranking and everything. I was incredibly instrumental to our daring escape.” Sammy doesn’t look suitably impressed, just flicks open his laptop case and types in his password. Tyson frowns and kicks a leg out in his general direction. “Besides, I’m going through a lot right now, and your support would mean a lot to me.”

“Oh my god, are you still being emo? Should I put on some Simple Plan for you?”

“Sing me the songs of your Quebecois brethren, my angel of music. I’m just a kid and my life _is_ a nightmare.”

Sammy mumbles something in French and Tyson graciously ignores him, instead turning his music back up and mouthing along to “Baby” for the sixth time in a row as it plays in his left AirPod. His right AirPod is. Somewhere else. He hasn’t _lost_ it, it’s just. He likes being able to listen to his music and listen to his roommate talk to himself in French.

After the ninth play of “Baby,” and after Tyson’s transitioned from mouthing along to actually singing all of the words (including the rap bridge of course), Sammy heaves this huge sigh like _he’s_ the one dealing with something right now and closes his laptop.

“Fine,” he says. “ _Fine_. Do you want to know why JT and Kerf are acting weird around you?”

Tyson scrambles to pause Biebs mid-“ohhh” and he sits up fast enough to fling the AirPod into one of the piles of crap that litter their room. He hauls ass across the room and crowds Sammy on his bed, ignoring the pointed look aimed at how his shoes are messing up the duvet.

“You _know_? You know, and you didn’t tell me?” Sammy just shrugs and looks somewhere between bored and inconvenienced. Like Big like fucking Little. “What happened? Did I spill beer on them? Did I tell them their sisters are hot again? Did I interrupt them while they were hooking up?

At his last suggestion, Sammy’s eyebrows go way up and he sets his laptop aside. “Interrupt them? Josty, you started it.”

“Started it? Like, I dared them to kiss and it escalated?”

Sammy brings up his hands and grinds his palms into his eyes, like he is mere seconds away from requesting a room transfer. He says something in French that does not sound very complimentary or supportive at all and says, “ _No_ , you idiot, you started kissing them first.”

Everything fucking stops. Tyson even stops breathing, stops feeling his fingers where they’re clenched in Sammy’s neutral-ass bedspread. This, uh. He hadn’t considered this possibility.

“Kissing?” he repeats, high and squeaky like he’s thirteen and going through puberty again. Sammy makes a face at him, nose wrinkled like he’s found one of Cole’s old socks on the kitchen table again.

“Well I didn’t see any kissing, I guess. But you were sucking on Compher’s neck like you were a fucking vampire.” Sammy growls and brings up his pointer fingers in an imitation of fangs. Tyson feels light headed. “And Kerfy was getting handsy, too.”

“ _When was this?_ ”

“After you punched a hole in the wall in the name of North American victory, but before you got bored and decided to go home. I had to track you down and remind you that you were already home. You owe me big, Josty.”

“Sammy,” Tyson breathes and oh god he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. “Sammy, man, this is a matter of life and death, you have to tell me _everything_.”

So Sammy rolls his eyes, takes a deep breath, and fucking _spills_.

 

**v. (saturday, wait)**

**__** _(ma, tell me when the boys get here - saturday night’s alright for fighting, elton john)_

Sammy knows a lot of the other frats on campus usually just get the pledges and newer brothers to play bouncers at their parties, the upperclassmen claiming that seniority gives them the right to get fucked up every single weekend. At the last Greek mixer, a bunch of the pledges from Mu Tau had asked him if Kappa did that or any number of other things that fell just short of hazing and, well.

There was a reason why Sam never even considered rushing Omega double-Tau.

But Kappa Omega is notoriously protective of their pledges and besides. They have a pretty solid way of deciding who gets to babysit open parties.

“Okay,” Gabe says from his position at the head of their traditional pre-party brunch table, “who did the most embarrassing thing at the last party? The floor is open to nominations.”

Their area of the dining hall is filled with chatter as every single Kappa brother eagerly tries to throw the others under the bus.

“Tyson sang along to Celine Dion.”

“Which Tyson?”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it count as embarrassing if they aren’t embarrassed?”

Sammy doesn’t have much to add—he had to skip the last party to finish up a stupidly long paper for his intro to IR class—but it’s always a good time watching his brothers rat each other out to the group. It’s cathartic, and weirdly supportive, and not at all like Omega double-Tau is rumored to be. Sammy definitely dodged a bullet there.

The chatter abruptly dies off as Big Z stands, smiling over the table beatifically. His gaze lands on Josty and his smile widens as Josty sinks low into his seat. Beside him, Compher barely looks up from his pile of hashbrowns and eggs even as a smirk tugs at his lips. Sammy leans forward in his seat as Z takes a breath and says,

“I know what Josty did.”

* * *

Josty won’t stop whining about being stuck with babysitting the party on the way back to the house. He ping pongs between Kerfy and Compher, knocking shoulders with them and almost sliding into the icy snowbank to one side of the walkway. The sun’s just bright enough to melt some of the snow and ice, but it’s all gonna refreeze as soon as the sun sets. Sammy walks ahead of them, but even then he can’t escape when Josty flings himself against his back, arms thrown over his shoulders.

“It’s _so_ unfair,” he whines again, right into Sammy’s ear. His breath smells like shitty dining hall egg substitute. “Z was the one who gave me the vodka and he _knows_ my tolerance hasn’t been the same since I got The Mono last summer.”

“ _The_ _Mono_ ,” Kerf repeats just behind them, dramatic and nasally.

“I can’t sit this party out, it’s the _Beer Olympics_. It’s my time to shine!”

“You were _just_ complaining about your tolerance,” Sammy reminds him. Josty pushes himself off and a soft “oof!” tells Sammy that he’s latched onto either Kerf or Compher instead.

“We _have_ to be a line for flipcup. The best Team Canada ever. Or wait, you’re American, aren’t you? Then fuck, we’ll be Team Young Guns, Team North America. We’ll kick ass!”

“ _We’ll_ kick ass,” Kerf says, “ _you_ will be making sure the pledges don’t get too drunk.”

“Sober sister,” Compher sings mockingly.

“Abstinent amigo?”

“Fuck!” Josty wails. Sammy turns around to see that he’s managed to drape himself sadly across Kerf and Compher while still remaining ambulatory. Compher’s cheeks are ruddy above his ginger beard and Kerf’s nose is scrunched up as he smiles. They’re both looking fondly at the hot mess strung up between them.

Sammy rolls his eyes.

The pledge class of spring ‘18 is _so_ fucking weird.

“You could always switch with someone,” Compher suggests. He looks up and locks eyes with Sammy and _merde_. “You could ask Sammy.”

Josty’s head pops up like a fucking jack-in-the-box and he stares at Sammy like a starving man staring down his first meal in days. Like Sammy is his eleventh hour miracle. His dark eyes sparkle and his face begins the shift to a pathetic puppy dog pout and Sammy has to head this off at the pass, block him before he shoots his shot, but instead Sammy says,

“It’ll cost you. Big time.”

“ _Anything,_ oh my god _._ ”

* * *

Babysitting the party isn’t that difficult. He refs a couple rounds of beer pong and flipcup, makes sure no one spikes the already potent jungle juice, keeps the handsiest couples away from the bedrooms and bathrooms. The usual.

Or, it isn’t that difficult until Josty nearly punches a hole in the wall after Team North America sweeps the beer pong tournament.

“ _Victory_ punched the wall, Samuel,” Josty insists as Sammy drags him out of the basement and up to the living room. His eyes are glazed and he’s stumbling and Sammy knows from unfortunate experience that, mono-bombed tolerance or not, Josty’s just on the edge of blacking out.

The house is packed with Kappa brothers, members of other campus fraternities and sororities, and a few randos. Sammy can feel the bass of the stereo pumping through the walls and the floorboards, fast and upbeat, and he knows that somewhere in the house, Barrie has probably started another dance competition. He dodges past a few stupidly tall frat boys and tugs Josty along down the hall.

He’s flushed and giggly, his curly dark hair a mess from head pats after each beer pong shot he sunk. Compher and Kerf trail behind them, flush with victory but not nearly as messy drunk as Josty. With Josty’s hand gripping Compher’s wrist and Kerf’s hand fisted in the back of Compher’s shirt, Sammy’s reminded of a train of elephants.

Really drunk, totally idiotic elephants.

“Sit,” he instructs, and pushes them to the older couch after clearing it of a few girls with red solo cups. The three fall in a heap of limbs on the cushions, giggling and shoving at each other. Sammy stands above them, hands on his hips, and sighs.

He can’t believe he’s younger than all of them.

Sammy snaps his fingers to get their attention. It doesn’t do much since the music's so loud—all poppy boy bands, so Landy must’ve gotten ahold of the aux cord—but eventually he’s got all three sets of blurry eyes on him.

“I need you to stay here while I get you water. Do not go back downstairs, do not have any more drinks, do not _punch anything_. Understand?”

Before he can get the necessary nods out of the three of them, there’s a crash from the hall and _tabarnak_ , this is why everyone hates babysitting parties.

Sammy looks away for one minute— _one minute_ —to make sure a couple of rowdy brothers from Delta Alpha Lambda didn’t knock over the Greek Council Award from ‘01 and when he looks back, Josty’s got his mouth latched to Compher’s neck and Kerfy’s hands are definitely up both of their shirts. They’re like, jesus. They’re really going at it.

He curses at them extensively in quebecois.

This is the sort of thing he should be preventing as the sober sister. Abstinent amigo. _Whatever_.

Just as Sammy is about to separate them, or shoo them up to one of their own rooms, _anything_ to get them off the communal couch in the _living room in the middle of a party_ — _criss_ , guys—Gravy stumbles into the room, all newborn giraffe legs and wide cow eyes, looking a little green around the gills, and well. _That_ becomes Sammy’s priority now.

* * *

They get to the bathroom just in time and Sammy spends the next ten minutes holding Gravy’s hair back and listening to him talk about astrological shit between sticking his face in the toilet bowl.

“You’re _such_ a Taurus,” he says at one point, his dark eyes wide and unfocused. He’s still pale, but there are spots of pink high on his cheekbones. “Reliable, and practical, and… And…” Gravy turns back to the toilet. Sammy grimaces and rubs at his back. The hard linoleum under him is getting to his knees and Sammy needs Gravy to rally so he can get back out to babysitting the three beer pong idiots before they defile the couch any more. Gravy makes another sad sound and warbles into the porcelain, “I should have listened to my horoscope this morning.”

“There, there,” Sammy says and checks his phone.

Eventually, they finish up in the bathroom and head to the kitchen where Sammy shuffles Gravy off to Barbs, who gathers the pledge into his arms and tucks his head under his beard. Gravy mutters something and Barbs shushes him, says, “You _do_ make people happy.” He flashes a grin and a thumbs up at Sammy who takes that as his cue to resume rounding up any other wayward brothers.

On his way back to the living room, Sammy has to stop to ref an impromptu game of flipcup for the stragglers of Team Scandinavia and Team USA. It quickly devolves when EJ, with a gummy grin too sly to mean anything good, suggests setting up a luge down the icy back steps.

“It is the _winter_ Beer Olympics after all,” he says reasonably.

Sammy, in the face of six rowdy drunk boys eager at the idea of flinging themselves down icy stairs to certain death while EJ looks upon the chaos he has created, throws in the towel and goes to get back-up.

* * *

By the time Sammy can return to the living room, it’s been over half an hour since he left Josty, Kerf, and Compher alone, and he is absolutely afraid of what he’ll come back to. His mind races with possibilities, many of which he one thousand percent does _not_ want to think about.

The scene as he enters the room is somehow better and worse than what he feared. Kerf and Compher are lengthwise on the couch, Kerf curled up nearly on top of Comph while JT’s leg dangles off the side. They’ve got their pants on, thank _god_ , but their shirts are gone and while Sammy absolutely does not want to look any closer, he can see a number of red marks dotting their necks. Comph’s got one hand buried in Kerfy’s thick hair while Kerf keeps reaching up to drunkenly trace around the edges of Comph’s scruff. They look very comfy, very drunk, and, inexplicably, very sad.

Sammy’s not too worried, except. Fuck.

Josty is nowhere to be found, but his shirt, his fucking _I’m a Κnock Ωut_ tank, is draped over the coffee table.

“Where’s Josty?”

Comph and Kerf squint up at him with tired, hangdog expressions.

“Who?”

Sammy picks up the discarded shirt and shakes it at them. It’s weirdly damp and sticky and Sammy hopes it’s from the beer pong tourney. Kerf heaves a huge sigh and tucks his face back into Comph’s neck. Comph stares at the shirt before slowly blinking and dragging his eyes back to Sammy.

“He left.”

“He got bored,” Kerfy mutters into Comph’s neck.

“Excuse me?”

“He got bored and he _left us_!” Compher says, his voice getting progressively louder until it cracks at the end. “We were making out and he got _bored_!”

“We’re _boring_ Sammy,” Kerfy whines, the words muffled and slurred. “I can’t give him mono, and I’m not Landy, and I’m _boring_!”

“Please, guys, tell me where Josty is.”

Comph ignores Sammy entirely and nods morosely down at Kerf. “You’re _not_ Landy.” Kerfy makes an anguished sound and Comph fumbles his hands up to cup them around Kerfy’s jaw, tugging his face up. “No, listen, you’re not Landy, but you’re not boring,” he says, serious and insistent despite how glassy his eyes look. “You still have. Hair. Your hair is still good. The best.”

“ _Your_ hair is the best,” Kerf says, and leans up to slot their mouths sloppily together.

 _Esti de câlice de tabarnak_ , Sammy is going to kill them.

He kicks at them until they break away, panting and drunk and _stupid_ , and Sammy says loudly and clearly, “Where is Tyson Jost?”

Comph peers up at him and says sadly, “He left.”

“He said he needed to go home,” Kerf adds, snuggling down into Comph’s bare chest.

Sammy blinks at them once, twice. Finally, with great deal of suppressed frustration, Sammy grits out, “Josty cannot leave to go home. He lives here.”

They stare blankly up at him and Sammy, in that moment, gives up on them. He mentally, emotionally, and spiritually washes his hands of them as he turns away and pulls out his phone, hoping Josty still has his location on.

Josty’s gonna owe him his fucking first born son for this shit.

 

**vi. it’s friday, i’m in love**

**__** _(gotta make my mind up, which seat can i take - friday, rebecca black)_

Friday morning, Tyson wakes up fully prepared to get this bread.

And by bread, he of course means JT and Kerf. Romantically, but also sexually, if they’re down.

Which like, based on what Sammy told him about Saturday night, signs point to yes, motherfucker.

First, he should probably come up with a plan. Plans aren’t really his strong suit; he usually leaves that up to JT, who leaves it up to Kerf. But like, they’re _important_ to him and this’ll be worth it if he can pull it off, so he’s gonna try.

Tyson lays in bed staring at the ceiling and trying to think of something more productive than the Wii Shop Channel music on loop. At minute five he decides to cut his losses and figures that if JT and Kerf don’t love him at his 2007 Britney, they don’t deserve him at his 2014 Britney. So he gets out of bed, gets dressed, and decides to wing it.

“I’m gonna go bag me two fresh, hot baguettes,” he tells the bundle of blankets that might contain Sammy. He closes the door behind himself and not a second later something hard and rubbery thumps against the door. Tyson smiles and makes his way downstairs.

* * *

There’s this great little nut-free bakery off campus that’s a bit of a hike away but Kerf swears by it. It’s tiny, tucked away in an alley in one of the more suburban areas of town, and Kerf once described the decor as “Americana kitsch.” The owners installed an old-fashioned dogtag-printing machine in the corner and Tyson doesn’t like, _get_ it, but it’s alright.

If he’s going to get this bread, he might as well take that literally.

The line’s out the door when he gets to the bakery. Tyson scrolls through his insta timeline twice before he gets to the counter. He gets a loaf of Kerf’s favorite protein-packed bread, a muffin, and then hesitates when it comes to picking which tea.

“Do you remember if it’s herbal or not?” the barista asks helpfully, gently bored by his incompetence.

“Uh,” Tyson says and stares at the multiple jars of loose leaf on the counter. “I think it smelled like oranges? He always smells really citrusy whenever he visits here.”

The barista bites back a smile, selects one of the jars, and prepares the tea. After Tyson’s paid for the tea and pastries, he notices a small heart penned onto the side of the cup. It makes him smile and puts a bounce in his step. Not too much of a bounce, though; he doesn’t want to spill the tea.

* * *

He catches up with Kerf right before his bio lab starts. Kerf stares at the cup suspiciously when Tyson shoves it into his hands, but his eyes go all soft and fond when he sees the bakery’s logo. He does this super cute thing where he closes his eyes and leans in to like, smell the tea. His eyes flutter open and he smiles at Tyson and it feels normal, but somehow _more_.

“You got me my favorite,” Kerf says and it’s almost a question.

“I just picked the one that smells like you.”

Kerf, bless him, doesn’t comment on how Tyson sounds like a fucking serial killer, just blushes and takes a sip of the tea. He’s given up on wearing a scarf and Tyson can’t keep his eyes off the fading hickeys on his neck. I put that there, he thinks. Probably. He tries not to be too visibly horny about it.

Tyson shuffles around on the steps outside the science building and finally blurts out, “Hey. Me, you, and Comph should stay in and watch a movie tonight.”

“Yeah? What movie?”

“I don’t know, Caddyshack?”

Kerf makes a face and counters, “21.”

It takes some finessing but Tyson gets him to meet in the middle with Legally Blonde because like, Kerf _can’t_ say no to that, not when it’s a movie about _Harvard Law_. Right before Kerf has to rush to his lab, Tyson remembers to shove the muffin and loaf of bread into his arms. He dances down the stairs and out of Kerf’s reach and responds to his “fuck you, Josty!” with a cheerful, “See you later, Alexander!”

* * *

With one down and one to go, Tyson heads back to the house. Friday mornings, JT has like, eight million study sessions to go to, including one for his public relations class that he claims to hate but Tyson knows he secretly loves. JT can and will go through all of them without stopping for food or a breather if no one intervenes, and Tyson knows from deeply personal experience that this results in a very hangry boy.

So, Tyson’s gonna make him cookies. Good cookies. _Great_ cookies. And for cookies worthy of JT, Tyson goes to the frat’s resident cookie expert.

“Barrie!” Tyson hollers as he bangs against his Big’s door. “Brutes! I need assistance!”

It takes a solid minute of banging before Barrie cracks the door open just wide enough to stick his head out. He’s bright-eyed and red-cheeked, and his hair is a fucked up mess. Tyson would bet his pell grant on there being someone else in the room, just behind the nearly closed door.

“ _What_ ,” he hisses and oh man, it isn’t just his hair that’s fucked up. “This better be an emergency. We’re talking level five, free-Blizzards-at-DQ urgency, Josty, or I swear to _god_ —”

“I need help baking cookies for JT.”

Barrie squints at him and honestly, what did Tyson do to deserve this kind of scrutiny? He is a well-meaning lad with innocent motives.

He turns on the puppy pout, full-force. 

Barrie groans and leans his head against the door jamb. “Don’t do that. I taught you that trick. Fine, _fine_. Just give me ten—” a mumbled shout of objection comes from deeper in the room and Barrie turns even redder, “—twenty minutes and I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Tyson gives him an over the top wink. “Gotcha.”

“Oh fuck off, Bonezone.”

* * *

JT, when Tyson finds him in the library between study groups, is just as hangry as Tyson expected him to be. He barely even acknowledges Tyson when he slides into the empty seat at the table next to him, just hunches his shoulders and glares down at the textbook and printed out graphs in front of him. Tyson doesn’t take it personally, just rummages in his backpack before depositing the tupperware of cookies on top of the book.

“You’re not you when you’re hungry,” Tyson says wisely when JT blinks up at him, red eyebrows furrowed in confusion rather than hunger-and-study-induced rage.

“Oh,” he says and pops the container lid. Steam rises up from the still warm cookies and the half-melted chocolate chips leave sticky prints on JT’s fingers when he picks one up and bites into it.

Tyson wants to lick the chocolate off his fingers.

Then he feels kind of gross about it because like, they’re in the _library_. Tyson refuses to stay in the library long enough to get either of them off, let alone long enough to engage in kinky food play.

“Did you make these yourself?”

Tyson blinks away from where he’s been staring at JT’s hands. “More or less.” He like. He licked the bowl. That counts.

JT rolls his eyes like he knows this, but he’s still got this stupidly fond look on his face and he’s already destroyed his first cookie. Something warm blooms in Tyson’s chest, something that tingles down to his fingers and toes and he wants to wrap himself around JT. Tyson wants to drag JT back to the house and curl up with him and Kerf in a huge pile of blankets.

And also bone, but like. Tyson will take the cuddling and intimacy.

Which reminds him.

“We’re going to watch a movie together tonight, me, you, and Kerf. Legally Blonde.”

JT raises his eyebrows but shoves another cookie into his mouth so Tyson takes that for the implicit agreement it clearly is.

Task completed, Tyson swings his backpack back on and books it out of the library. All the books and silence give him hives.

* * *

Tyson spends his Friday afternoon classes bribing, brown-nosing, and blackmailing his brothers until he can secure the house for the evening. He burns through so many favors he honestly doesn’t know how he’ll make it through finals season.

Colin’s the toughest to convince, and Tyson suspects that it could be out of his—totally misplaced—protectiveness of his Little. Like, Tyson doesn’t want Colin out of the way tonight so he can nail JT and Kerf with more golf balls, Willie, jesus. He just wants the house cleared out so he can be nailed _by_ JT and Kerf.

Tyson does not actually _say_ this to Colin, but it’s heavily implied.

When Tyson messages Sammy about bouncing for the night, he gets a string of emojis and gifs back that loosely translate to “thank god” and “don’t fuck on my bed.” It’s a tall order, but Tyson will attempt to keep his roomie happy.

The professor calls on him once to answer a question about the reading but Tyson’s able to bullshit his way through a non-response that ends with him suggesting that Emily Dickinson is a lesbian. They’re not even talking about Emily Dickinson, but that gets the class in a heated debate _and_ he gets partial credit so like. Score.

* * *

In a moment of weakness, Tyson googles “can you pin your own frat brother” and “can i pin more than one person” but the results aren’t very helpful.

Nonetheless, he files that thought away for later.

* * *

They’re on their usual couch, mainly because Tyson gave them the saddest eyes he knows how to make when JT and Kerf tried to sit on the other couch. It takes fifteen minutes of the movie before they’re slumped into each other, a tangle of lanky boy limbs. It usually only takes five minutes, but Tyson will take this. They’ve seen this movie a billion and a half times before so after Elle fucking _owns_ Warner’s ass with her “What, like it’s hard?” line, Tyson takes a deep breath and rips the proverbial bandaid off.

“So about Saturday night.”

JT and Kerf go as stiff as Tyson thought they would. He’s super careful to slouch even more against both of them.

“Uh,” Kerf says.

“What about it?” JT asks in this tone of voice like he wants this topic to die. Neither of them turn to look at him.

“I don’t really remember a lot after we won at beer pong,” Tyson says and trails off. He waits until they turn to look at him and then he puts on his sleaziest grin and raises an eyebrow. “You guys wanna help jog my memory?”

It takes a second for that bomb to drop but then their jaws drop simultaneously. Tyson can’t help the peal of laughter that escapes them at that and he has to dart forward to grab at Kerf’s arm when he turns bright red and starts to get up.

“No, no, stay, I’m serious.” 

Kerf lets himself be pulled back into the cushions but it’s JT who says, “What exactly are you serious about Josty?”

Tyson holds back a shrug and like, maybe he should have planned this part out better, or at all, but, “You’re my best friends and you support me through everything. I didn’t really know who I was or why I was even at this school before I met you guys. Like, I wouldn’t have made it through open rush without you guys. And like, I guess I didn’t realize that I _like_ liked you both until Wednesday. I mean, you have both always made my dick hard but I didn’t realize you make my heart hard as well.” Tyson powers over JT’s coughing fit with, “Sammy told me that we _basically_ hooked up all over this couch at Beer Olympics and I don’t really remember it, but I bet we were pretty dope. I think the three of us _together_ together would be cash money.”

“You think we’d be _cash money_ together, huh?” JT says, rolling his eyes.

“ _That’s_ what you’re focusing on?” Kerf demands, craning over Tyson to stare down JT. “This moron just said we make his _heart_ hard!”

“Well, what else do you want me to say? That sometimes I hate going on break because I know that I won’t see either of you for _days_? That I signed up for the econ class with Professor Muers even though she hates me because that was the only time slot that worked with JT’s schedule? That I’m snapchat friends with all of Kerf’s siblings and I send them updates to let them know you aren’t overstudying yourself into an early grave?” Tyson swallows. “That I went out of my mind a little bit when you both stopped talking to me and Sammy called me out for being emo about it.”

The lack of planning is _really_ coming into play here because _perhaps_ Tyson should have picked a better place to have this conversation than between them on a couch. His neck is exhausted from turning back and forth to look them both in the eye.

“And like, maybe I want to hold your hands and cuddle and shit, jesus,” he concludes, slumping back and crossing his arms. JT looks a little winded, like Tyson punched him in the solar plexus instead of word vomited his emotions all over him. Kerf squints back at him, the tilt of his eyebrows reading somewhere between hope and suspicion.

Finally, this crooked, beautiful smile pulls at his face and Kerf says, “Really?”

“Really really.”

JT socks him in the leg for that but it’s like, fond or whatever, because then he just leaves his hand high up on Tyson’s thigh. When Tyson turns back to him, he’s blushing and grinning, eyes darting between Kerf and Tyson. Tyson raises his eyebrows at him, goading and pushing a little.

“So what about it? We in it to win it?”

“You’re so embarrassing,” JT grumbles and leans in.

It’s not, like, a _good_ kiss. Tyson’s smiling too hard for it to be a _good_ kiss, but it’s still the greatest kiss he’s ever had. Soft and gentle, almost delicate except for the scrape of JT’s beard against his skin. The press of JT’s lips against his teeth is kind of gross but Tyson still loves it. When JT pulls back, his face is bright red and Tyson loves that too.

Tyson can’t really feel his face but he must be grinning still because JT huffs and rolls his eyes and just kind of smears his hand across Tyson’s face. He’s smiling as he does it though, small and sweet. Tyson shoves him back a little, just enough to turn, and says, “Thank you, next.”

Kerf, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, his stupid Clark Kent hair flopping stupidly into his face, pulls up from where he’s been leaning into Tyson’s space. He raises his eyebrows at Tyson expectantly.

“You haven’t had any nuts _today_ , right?”

“I haven’t nutted all day, babe.”

Beside him JT breaks out into helpless chuckles, his chest vibrating into Tyson’s shoulder and like, Tyson _really_ wants to turn around and go for a fist bump but that might ruin the moment. But even Kerf looks like he’s trying to hold back his laughter so Tyson extends his fist back to JT.

“Real nice, Tys,” Kerf says as JT pounds it. Then he fits his hand against Tyson’s jaw, his fingers weaving into the short hairs at the back of his head, and pulls Tyson into a kiss.

And like. Kissing Kerf is _so_ much better when it isn’t inspired by some brain goblin hijacking Tyson’s body. He’s bossy and competitive as fuck, pressing in and using the hand against Tyson’s jaw to tilt him where he wants. His nose bumps up against Tyson’s and somehow even that feels good instead of awkward. Tyson can’t help but melt into it and jesus, this is _also_ the greatest kiss ever.

Like, god, greatness all around.

They’re the fucking GOATs of kissing. Hashtag _Kobe!_

With a tiny nip to Tyson’s bottom lip, Kerf pulls back. His eyelashes are so dark and long when they flutter open and his lips are pink and shiny and oh man. Oh man, oh man, Tyson is a fucking genius.

“Hell yeah,” he says. His voice has already gone a little deeper. “ _Hell_ yeah.”

Kerf rolls his eyes so hard Tyson thinks they might just roll out of his sockets. He plants a hand on Tyson’s chest and pushes him back into the sagging cushions of the couch. For a hot second Tyson thinks he’s going in for more kissing but instead Kerf angles himself across Tyson and catches JT’s lips with his own. Tyson can hear JT’s sharp intake of breath through his nose, can see the way they carefully tilt to fit against each other. JT’s beard rasping against Kerf’s skin and the scorchingly hot way Kerf sucks at JT’s lower lip and _oh man_.

The brain goblin was fucking right.

“Hell yeah,” Tyson says again, and goes to suck bright new marks over the fading bruises on Kerf’s neck.

* * *

“Oh,” Tyson says, later. He’s got his head in Kerf’s lap and his legs kicked all over JT and they’re still watching the same stupid movie, even though they’d moved the party up to JT and Kerf’s room. His neck _aches_ from the hickeys Kerf and JT sucked onto him, one part retribution one part obnoxious competitiveness. He feels warm to the tips of his toes.

Kerf tugs at a piece of his hair. “Oh?”

“I forgot to tell you. I don’t think either of you are boring. Neither of you are _Gabriel Landeskog_ , but you don’t bore me.”

“Oh my god,” JT groans.

“You don’t bore me, but of the three of us, _my_ hair is definitely the best.”

As JT holds him down and Kerf attempts to smother him with a pillow, Tyson can’t think of anyplace else he’d rather be.

 

**vii. sunday always comes too late**

**__** _(a love to last past saturday night - a sunday kind of love, etta james)_

They spend the whole weekend holding hands and exchanging kisses, trying to figure out the new ways they all fit together. It’s gross as shit and Tyson loves it. Sammy all but yeets Tyson out of his own room, but it’s alright because it turns out that when they push JT and Kerf’s beds together, there’s just enough mattress space for all three of them.

EJ fines them mercilessly for all the PDA but Gabe, a truly benevolent leader, waives the fees for one weekend. It’s a short window of time but it’s fine.

They’ll make up for time lost.

**Author's Note:**

> this story is dedicated to everyone who got too drunk at the Beer Olympics of Spring 2014 and ended up making out with their best friend before getting bored in the middle of it and leaving.
> 
> i can be found [on tumblr](https://dalmatienne.tumblr.com) where i am frequently yelling and being sad about my sweet sweet storm boys the carolina hurricanes

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] friday never hesitate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21321883) by [binchmarner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/binchmarner/pseuds/binchmarner)
  * [[podfic] friday never hesitate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21467545) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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